


Status Quo

by simplyclockwork



Category: Equilibrium (2002), Equilibrium (2002) RPF, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Character Death, Dystopia, Dystopian society, Equilibirium, Futuristic society, Gun Violence, Rebellion, Revolution, Violence, WIP, Work In Progress, emotion repression via medicating, sherlock bbc - Freeform, underground resistance, vivid descriptions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:37:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grammaton Cleric First Class John Watson is brought in when the leader of the The Underground, Sherlock Holmes, eludes capture by a fellow Cleric. Can the high-ranking Cleric bring the backbone of the sense offender rebellion to justice without losing himself in the process, or will he be made to choose a side?</p><p>Disclaimer: I will be borrowing some lines from the movie itself. They are not my property, and I am not profiting off this in any way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prelude

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't seen Equilibrium, here's a quick background (no spoilers):
> 
> "In the first years of the 21st century, a third World War broke out. Those of us who survived knew mankind could never survive a fourth; that our own volatile natures could simply no longer be risked. So we have created a new arm of the law: The Grammaton Cleric, whose sole task it is to seek out and eradicate the true source of man's inhumanity to man - his ability to feel."
> 
> In a world left devastated by a third World War in the 21st century, humanity faces possible extinction if a fourth World War were to happen. To ensure the future of humanity, an emotion-inhibiting drug, Prozium, is made mandatory, in hopes that, by suppressing emotion, including anger, hatred, and revenge, those remaining will attain a peaceful existence. Those who refuse to take the drug, termed 'sense offenders', are outlaws of society; rounded up and killed. 
> 
> Taking place in the city-state of Libria, headed by the Tetragrammaton Council (an organization of super assassin/police heavily trained in hand-to-hand combat, gun use, weaponry, and assault, called 'Clerics') and 'Father', a figurehead preaching the faults and downfalls of humanity in the past due to emotion, citizens live a robotic life of mindless work and sparse surroundings.
> 
> Resisting the Prozium and the control of Father and the council is a resistance made up of sense offenders, called The Underground, a pocket of rebellion that the Clerics are working to eradicate.
> 
>  
> 
> Sidenote: please feel free to point out any mistakes, typos, or give general feedback/criticism, as there is always (of course) room for improvement.

            The plaintive wail of violin strings played through the quiet, abandoned house, the notes reverberating through the silence. Footsteps at the door invaded the fading hum, and moved up the stairs, a heavy _thump thump thump_ toward the landing.  

  
            The player turned, wan morning sunlight soft on his pale cheek from the open window he stood in front of. Facing the door, he lowered the violin, letting it dangle from his left hand, bow hooked in the loose fingers of his right. The smooth line of his mouth, settled and relaxed, was barely betrayed by the wrinkles at the corners of his tense eyes. Light from the lamp on the heavy oak table in front of him reflected off grey irises, and the dark curls curving around his ears.

  
            The door banged open; a man stumbled in, face panicked, his eyes wild.

  
            “Sir, Clerics! We didn’t—I couldn’t—“ the man’s stammering sentence was cut short as a bullet slammed into the back of his skull and exited from his forehead, imbedding itself in the wall behind the violinist. His body folded at the knees. Pushed by a heavy boot, he pitched face-first onto the thick, cream-coloured cashmere carpet, blood and brain matter slowly forming a gory aura around what remained of his head.

  
            The violin player regarded the spreading red staining the carpet with a twinge of regret for the ruined treasure that felt silk-soft beneath his bare feet. He raised his eyes to the man entering the room, dressed in a leather, knee-length coat, and stepping over the dead body with his heavy black boots. The gun dangling from one hand at his side, a heavily modified Beretta sporting a silencer, trailed faint gun smoke, a mirror of the grey wisps curling into the air from the hole in the back of the dead man’s head.

  
            “Your intel appears to be a bit behind.” The leather-clad man observed, nudging the body with the toe of his boot. He raised blank eyes to the violinist standing at the window, and the edges of his lips twitched.

  
            The man holding the violin remained silent, slowly twirling the bow between his fingers with his face carefully composed. The shooter stepped around the body on the floor and moved further into the room.  “I’ve just killed one of your men,” He continued, keeping his eyes on the violin player as the blood splattered carpet muffled his heavy steps. “Doesn’t such an action warrant a reaction?” His gaze sharpened, and the index finger of his gun hand stroked along the handle of the altered weapon.           

  
            The violinist noted the movement with a flicker of his eyes, before meeting the shooter’s gaze, his lips curving into a slight smile.

  
            “He doesn’t appear to have been a terribly reliable source of information, does he?” The violin player replied, his voice soft. His head tilted; the sounds of voices and car doors slamming reached him from the yard through the open window behind him. Across the room, the shooter’s face set into a mild, almost bored expression.

  
            “Yes, good help is so hard to find these days.” The intruder mused. “But I am not here for idle chatter.” He continued, lifting his arm and pointing the muzzle of his handgun at the violinist. “Sherlock Holmes, you are accused of sense offence, refusing Prozium, and exhibiting emotion freely. How do you respond to this accusation?”

  
            Sherlock tilted his head, his eyes hard, and his smile gentle. “You and I are both aware, Cleric Dimmock of the Tetragrammaton, that there is no longer any need for you to permit sense offenders to mount a defense.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Or are you mimicking the cat that plays with its food before devouring it whole?”

  
            Dimmock’s mouth moved into the shape of a smile, but it was flat and devoid of any actual feeling. His fingers readjusted themselves on the handle of the gun, and his thumb disabled the safety.

  
            “One can occasionally hope for a real challenge.” The Cleric replied, and Sherlock’s smile widened.

  
            “Hope? Interesting choice of word,” He lifted the violin, setting it against his shoulder and beneath his chin, fingers poised over the delicate strings. “Considering you know nothing of the concept behind it.”

  
            The Cleric’s expression tightened and he braced his feet apart.

  
            “Words are words. Their concepts are meaningless.” His index finger brushed the curve of the trigger, and Sherlock’s smile widened.

  
            “Indeed they are, Cleric.” He replied, and he brought the bow to position. Stepping backwards, each movement slow, deliberate, he moved toward the windows. Dimmock followed, hands steady on the gun, beginning to lift his shoulders and level his gaze along the sight.

  
            Sherlock stroked the bow along the strings of the violin, emitting a piteous whine from the instrument.  The Cleric’s eyes narrowed at the sound; the man at the window continued to smile.

  
            Dimmock curled his finger, pulling the trigger back, and Sherlock’s smile grew to a grin as he leaned backwards, the back of his knees hitting the window ledge. The muffled report of the gun shot was drowned by another discordant note stroked from the violin, and Sherlock tumbled out the open window.


	2. machinate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweepers: grunt soldiers who shoot down anything missed by the Clerics
> 
> Also, if you read this before this point, I changed Mary Morstan to Sarah Sawyer as John's late wife.

            The Nether. A thankless place; a cesspool of people who scrounged for life. A life of emotion; of love, of happiness—of hatred and anger.

            Cleric John Watson walked through the ruined remains of the building, his fingers curled around the handgun held against his thigh, safety off and trigger cocked. Bullet holes perforated the walls on both sides, and the rattle of gunfire echoed ahead, behind, and somewhere to his left.

            There was a burst of shouting; gunshots and raised voices, before a loose cluster of men burst from a door on his right. John stopped, rocking back on his heels and balancing his weight evenly between his feet. They froze, eyes going wide, and he could see each heavy, terrified breath as it left their chests.

            He raised the gun, and he put each of them down, one at a time, neat and in order. One bullet for each man, dead center in the forehead.

            Another man stumbled from the doorway; stared at the carnage. He staggered, fingers scraping against the concrete as he caught his balance and righted himself. He turned wide, panicked eyes on the row of bodies, then to John himself, and began running, legs moving in a jerky zig-zag path.

            The muzzle of John’s gun tracked the man’s movements, eyes narrowed and hands steady. The runner was almost at the door at the end of the hall, nearly out of range—John curled his finger, pulled the trigger, and the man jerked to the left, fell to his knees, and crumpled to the side. Blood spilt from the hole in his back, where the bullet had severed the spinal cord. He lay twitching on the ground, agonized noises escaping his open mouth, his body jittering and spilling life onto the cold floor.

            The heavy tread of John’s boots rang out in the narrow hallway as he crossed the distance between the incapacitated man and himself. He stood over the dying runner, and the man’s eyes rolled in his head in a myriad of terror and pain, roving to look up at the Cleric. John regarded him in silence for a moment, silent, his eyes carefully blank. He lifted the gun at an angle; pulled the trigger and blew the man’s head apart.

            Another man stepped from a door on the right. Dressed in the same long, leather uniform as John, he also held a gun, loose at his side, muzzle cocked towards the ground. He stepped over the line of bodies, and moved towards the Cleric standing over the now-faceless runner.

            “Watson.”

            John turned, his feet shifting in the blood spreading and pooling across the concrete, facing his partner. His hands moved with automatic, efficient movements as he deftly reloaded his Beretta, letting the empty cartridge clatter against the floor at his feet.

            “Lestrade.” He offered in reply. His partner—a silver-haired, dark eyed man of medium height and average-build—nodded, and stepped forward.

            “The Council just informed me—we’re to return as soon as we’re finished here.” His face stayed carefully blank, and his fingers fiddled along the trigger guard. “Special assignment. Someone got away from Dimmock.”     

            John tilted his head; shifted his hand and pressed the reloaded magazine into place with a sharp click. “Another one?” Lestrade nodded, and John’s eyebrows lifted slightly, as if in surprise, if he were capable of feeling the emotion. “Anyone important?”            

            “Suspected leader of The Underground.” The silver-haired man replied, flicking the safety off on his gun. “Sherlock Holmes.”

            John lifted the gun, sighting down the muzzle and aiming it at the wall as he pulled back the barrel and let it snap back into place, reloaded. He glanced up at his partner over the sight of the gun.

            “Let’s finish up here, then.”

            Lestrade nodded, and, lifting his free hand, beckoned with his fingers for the Sweepers to move forward.

 

*--*--*--*

           

            As the two Clerics finally emerged from the ruined building, uniforms, boots, faces and hands red and blood spattered, a small, white sedan pulled up, back doors swinging open as the men stepped forward. They slid into their respective sides, John slipping a cloth from his pocket and beginning to wipe the gore from the cold metal of his gun.

            As Lestrade slid into the seat beside him, shutting the door behind him, John’s eyes flickered towards the older man, pausing on the small, grey-bound book poking out from one of the large side pockets of the Cleric’s jacket. He looked back down to his gun, smoothing the cloth over the slimy barrel.

            “Why didn’t you just leave it for the evidentiary team to collect and log?” He asked, polishing the muzzle of the handgun, eyes focused on the curve of the trigger. Beside him, Lestrade slipped a hand to the book in his pocket, fingers tracing along the edge of the binding.

            “They miss things, sometimes. I want to make sure it’s done right.” The silver-haired man murmured, beginning to clean his own gun, smoothing away the half-dried blood from the handle.

            John was silent, slipping his gun back into its holster, leaning back into the seat and slipping his leather gloves off. He folded them into his pocket, eyes dropping once more the book, his brain rapidly creating multiple scenarios inside his head. His lips tightened, and he folded his hands in his lap, deliberate.

            “Every time we return to the city from the Nether, it reminds me of why we do what we do.” He said, voice pitched low. Lestrade’s eyes stayed on his weapon, scratching at a mark with his fingernail.

            “It does?”

            John went still, his head turning slowly. “I beg your pardon?”

            Lestrade was quiet for a moment. Slowly fitting his gun back in its holder, he lifted his head and met John’s eyes. “It does.” He repeated, his voice falling flat and final on the last word.

            John looked away, his eyes watching the passing scenery with blank disregard.

 

*--*--*--*

 

            The office of Irene Adler (the functioning voice of Father’s wishes) was a large, dark stone room, with the high ceiling lost in shadows. Built much like a bunker, it was a cold, unforgiving room, something that may have seemed foreboding to a sense offender, with all their messy, bursting-at-the-seams emotions. But, to a Cleric—to John—it inspired nothing more than a cursory glance around the perimeter, a precautionary action drilled into him from years of training under the Tetragrammaton Council.

            Irene Adler, a tall, pale woman with long, dark hair coiled elegantly atop her head, tapped her fingers against the surface of the large desk she sat behind. She regarded the man before her, and folded her hands beneath her chin, elbows resting on the top of her desk.

            “John Watson, Grammaton Cleric of the First Class.” She mused, reading from the file spread before her. John straightened his stance, feet apart and weight balanced as she went on. “This is quite a record you’ve got here, isn’t it?” She perused the file for a moment in silence, flipping pages with slender fingers. Her eyes lifted, and she regarded the Cleric with a considering expression.

            “I am good at… at…” John paused, shifting his gaze along the expanse of the room. “I can, on some level, _sense_ when someone is feeling. As if I can, somehow, put myself inside their shoes.”

            Irene cocked an eyebrow, smoothing her finger along the smooth desktop, staring intently at the Cleric, before resting the curve of her cheek in the palm of her left hand. “You a family man, Cleric?”

John shook his head. “No ma’am. No children.” Irene glanced down at the file again.

            “But you were married.” She pressed, smoothing her fingers along the papers. “Maiden name Sawyer, first name Sarah.” She lifted her eyes to the man before her again, and John nodded.

            “My wife was arrested and incinerated for sense offence five years ago.” He answered easily, his voice polite and bland, his stance relaxed but balanced. Irene regarded him closely, eyes intent.

            “And how did you come to miss that?” She asked softly, and John only shook his head, so she followed up. “How did that make you feel, losing your wife?”

            The Cleric frowned. “I… I don’t understand the question.” Irene sat straighter, leaning back in her seat.

            “How did that make you _feel,_ Cleric?” She pressed, and John’s frown only deepened.

            “I… had no feelings whatsoever, Ms. Adler.” He replied, voice empty and eyes betraying nothing, and the woman nodded.

            “Very good, Cleric. We can only hope that such a slip up doesn’t occur again, as with your wife, yes?”

            John tilted his head in agreement. “Of course not, Ms. Adler.” He replied, and the woman’s lips twisted.

            “Now,” Irene placed a hand, palm down, on the file before her, and slid it off to her left. “I assume that today’s sweep went well?”

            “Yes ma’am. We received intel of sense offenders holed up in the Nether. Thirty-four of them. We put each of them down.” John replied, and Irene looked pleased.

            “Good.” She paused; tapped her fingers against the desk. “And where is your partner? He didn’t sustain any injuries, did he?”

            John shook his head. “No, ma’am. Lestrade recovered some restricted material—a book, of some sort. He said he would see to it that it was properly logged.” He shifted his weight, resettling with his hands clasped before him. “He said we were to be assigned to a special case once we returned.”

            Irene nodded. Pushing back her chair, she pulled open a drawer behind the desk, and lifted out another file. Placing it on the desk, she slid it across the top, toward the Cleric. John stepped forward, catching the folder before it could slip off the edge and spill onto the floor. He cradled it in one hand, and flipped it open with the other.

            The first item in the folder was a photograph, black and white and stark in contrast. It was zoomed in, cropped, and sharpened, making the edges harsh and pixelated, but, still, he could make out the sharp angles of the man’s face, all cheekbones and dark eyes. He was tall, his frame long, lean, and thick curls covering his head. The photograph had caught him with his body angled slightly away from the camera, face turned to the side.

             A striking profile. John studied the image closely in silence, until Irene spoke.

            “Sherlock Holmes,” she said, and her voice held a rough edge to it that made John raise his head. She looked back at him, face cold, eyes dark. “Recent intel has led us to believe he may be the self-styled leader of the Underground resistance.” She shifted in her chair, and a look almost like distaste crossed her face. Just a flicker, and gone before John could be sure it had occurred.

            “This is the runner who escaped Cleric Dimmock.” He realized, and he looked back to the photograph. The eyes of Sherlock Holmes seemed to follow him, no matter how he tilted the picture. A movement in his peripherals caught his attention, and he looked up to see Irene nodding.

            “Yes. It was supposed to be a routine sweep. They got everyone else—Holmes’ intel took the bait, they reported the wrong date—but Holmes got away.” She tilted her chin up, eyes narrowed. “I am told that he—Holmes—was facing a bullet, and fell out the window. On purpose.” Her fingers tensed against the desk. “And then he disappeared. We need him removed. ASAP.”

            John nodded, and he flipped through the folder, past the photograph, to Sherlock’s file. There wasn’t much here. Just the name, **SHERLOCK HOLMES** , in sharp, bold writing, a brief description, followed by the words ‘known sense offender; suspected leader of The Underground.’ He lifted his eyes to the woman behind the desk, flipped the folder shut, and slid it back across the desk.

            “We’ll find him.” He said, and Irene looked pleased.

            “Of course you will.” She lifted her hands, and flicked her fingers towards him, a dismissal. “Collect your partner. Intel believes they’ve spotted Mister Holmes, holed up in an abandoned warehouse in the Nether.”

            John nodded; turned to leave and was stopped as Irene continued.

            “And John—“ he turned, and she was watching him with a sharp look on her face. “Don’t forget what we talked about—no more slip ups.”

            John tilted his head again, another nod, and left the office.


	3. response

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what the injection bit is actually called (they never name it in the movie) so I had to get creative. The characters are pretty OOC, but I figure that works since it's an AU anyways.
> 
> Also, sorry this has taken so long to update (if anyone is even reading this and cares, ha); college just started up again, and I'm busy with starting up my own house-sitting business, as well. 
> 
> (shush Paige, no one cares).

            “Sherlock.”

            The tall man paced the length of the small room, making noises of frustration as his long legs carried him from one end to the other, far too fast in the cramped room. He brushed his fingertips along the stone walls as he moved, ignoring the man seated on the rotting, mouldering grey couch set beneath a bordered up window.

            “ _Sherlock_.”

            Sherlock paused in his pacing; whirled and slammed a palm against the wall. “Dammit, Mycroft—our intel was wrong. It was _wrong_.” He turned and his nostrils flared as he stared at the man on the couch, his shoulders hunched and his face angry. “That means they are feeding us false intel—that _one of us_ is giving them information.”

            The man on the couch—Mycroft—lifted his hands; waved them in dismissal. “Relax, Sherlock. We do not have a traitor in our midst.” He sat up straighter, expression flat and hands resettling on his knees, steady. He appeared unconcerned. “Yes, they are feeding us false information—that means they know we’re listening. We will just have to be more prudent in what we choose to take as legitimate.”

            Sherlock was shaking his head. He returned to his pacing again, his face bitter.

            “Regardless, brother, we are spinning our wheels and getting nowhere.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes far-away and distracted. He moved around the room like a hurricane unleashed, and Mycroft sat still on the couch, unperturbed. Sherlock came to a stop, rocking back on his heels, and swung around to face his brother. “No matter what we do, we are never going to achieve anything. We’ll all be shot by sweepers and put down with bullets in our mouths, and it will all have been for nothing.”

            Mycroft stood, walking to his brother. The resemblance between the two men wasn’t obvious; only the lines of their noses and their dark hair spoke of any relation. Where Sherlock’s hair was all unruly curls, Mycroft’s was short and straight, worn neat and smooth. He had a few inches on his younger brother, and wore a blank expression with empty eyes, a sharp contrast to the wild light in Sherlock’s face, and the mayhem of his darting eyes.

            “Sherlock, you focus too much on the here and now, instead of the big picture. Our time will come. In time, it will come.” Mycroft’s hand settled lightly on his brother’s shoulder, and he turned to the only window in the room not boarded up. “Look—we have company.”

            Sherlock shrugged out from under Mycroft’s hand and moved towards the window. His fingers settled on the sill, and he looked out into the ruins of the warehouse yard below. His grip tightened as a white car pulled up in front of the building.

            Behind him, Mycroft folded his hands behind his back. “Big picture, Sherlock—remember, big picture.”

            The driver-side door of the car swung open.

 

*--*--*--*

 

            John drove the sedan onto the warehouse grounds, and, tilting his head, looked out the windshield at the tall, decrepit building. Windows smashed and huge holes gaping in its concrete façade, it stood at the height of four storeys. He shifted in his seat; he had been unable to locate Lestrade, and had come alone.

            He brought the car to a stop level with the cracked front steps, and killed the engine. Tucking the keys into his pocket, he drew his gun, flicked off the safety, and opened the door. He stepped out of the vehicle, shutting the door behind him, and looked around, eyes scanning his surroundings for anywhere that might conceal a shooter.

            He listened, straining his ears, and heard nothing but wind whistling in the gaping holes in the walls of the run-down buildings, through the shattered windows, and the sound of his own breathing. He paused, held his breath; pointed the gun into the air and fired off a single shot.

            The report rang out; echoed and bounced back at him from the front of the half-demolished building. He waited, and he listened, and heard nothing. No shots fired in reply, no creeping steps of assailants taking position above. He lowered the Beretta, scanning the warehouse again, then, aiming the gun before him and taking the steps in smooth, even strides, made his way up the stairs, to the entrance.

            He paused in the doorway, staring into the dark, gun tracking the movements of his eyes. The open space within—dimly lit by light flickering through the broken windows and the holes in the walls—was empty. Gun raised, safety still off, he stepped into the darkened building, gaze taking in the dilapidated remains of habitation from days when the warehouse saw any non-fugitive activity. Most likely they hadn’t seen use since well before the Third World War, when the world’s population held enough humans to actually find a use for all the standing structures.

            Now they stood empty and falling to pieces, forgotten relics from a past that many tried to forget.

            John walked through the open inside of the building, skirting loose rocks and crumbling gravel, each footstep balanced and bordering on noiseless, making his way to the stairs at the other end of the room. The first floor was clearly empty, save for him and the cold gun gripped in his hands.

            He stepped onto the first stair, and it creaked, cracked and groaned, and he paused. He listened; heard nothing and continued upwards, skirting patches of rot where his foot could punch through the soggy wood with the slightest application of pressure. His free hand hovered over the banister, and, as he reached the landing, he paused again, eyes searching what he could see of the second floor, listening for sounds, footsteps, voices—anything.

            He had barely taken more than a few steps forward when he heard it—a soft, plaintive sound he didn’t recognize, had never heard before; he only knew that no human made such a noise. He froze, shifting his grip on the handgun, and moved on again, cautious, his eyes focused and his steps silent against the wood flooring as he came to the first door on the second floor. He pressed his back against the wall beside the door frame, straining his ears for any sounds inside. Hearing nothing, he leaned to his left and peered inside.

            A large room, filled with rotting cardboard boxes and the smell of mold. Light filtered into the space through an ash-smeared window that turned the daylight a greasy grey colour. Empty, save for the faint scurrying of rats in the dark corners. John’s mouth quirked, then flattened, and he sidled towards the next door, breathing quietly through his open mouth, tasting the dust in the air as it swirled up from his boots; the floor was coated thick with it.

            He checked the second room. Also empty, as were the third and fourth. In the fifth room, heavy, dust-choked sheets hung haphazard over bulky shapes. He approached the shadowy forms slowly, eyes narrowed, and flicked the corner of one of the sheets back with his free hand. A cloudy mixture of dust and soot enfolded him, turning his skin, face and uniform grey-white, and he shook the mess from his gun. Wiping his face with the back of his free hand, leaving smears of black across his cheeks and forehead, he reached out to push back more of the sheet coverings, revealing a large painting of a rather severe-looking young woman, her lips barely hinting at what might have been a smile.

            John frowned, and let the sheet fall back into place, making a mental note to alert the evidentiary team to the existence of the contraband artwork. Brushing dust from his sleeves, he heard it again—the noise from before. He paused, eyes narrowed as he listened, pinpointing it further along the hallway. He moved through the room, back to the door, and listened again.

            Silence.

            He slipped into the hall, keeping his movements slow and silent. There was one more room, a door standing open near the end of the hallway. He moved towards it, pressing his back to the wall once again, just beside the doorway. His jaw tensed, and he twisted his body until he could see through the crack between the door and the wall.

            He saw a small room, a broken window, and a table with three legs, slanted against the far wall.

            The sound came again, and he pivoted, spinning into the doorway itself, gun raised and finger loose on the trigger as he took in the scene.

            Four windows; three boarded up, one the broken one he had seen before. There was the broken table, as well as a massive desk, a rotting sofa, and an old armchair. Seated in it, a man with light eyes and dark hair, balancing a small wooden instrument beneath his chin, a long, stick-like object clutched in one hand.

            His chin rested against the dark, varnished wood of the instrument— _violin_ , John’s memory supplied him, flashing back to the identification images in basic training—and he watched John with an almost transfixed expression. John stared back, eyes flicking over the sharp angles of the other man’s face; the dark hair that curled across his forehead and along the back of his neck. He shifted his feet apart, balanced, and levelled the Beretta. The man in the armchair smiled, and slid the bow in his hand along the violin’s strings. The room hummed with the strange sound John had heard earlier, and his eyes narrowed as he lifted his other hand to steady the gun. The man’s smile only shifted to a smirk.

           “Welcome, Cleric John Watson.” His voice was smooth, like oil, and John lifted his chin only slightly in acknowledgment. “It’s so nice to finally meet. I’ve…” the man with the slick voice and sharp smile paused, gaze sweeping over the man before him, cataloguing, before returning to John’s face and catching his eye again. “…heard _so much_ about you.”

           John hesitated, the rapid trajectory of his thoughts never showing in his face, then slowly lowered his gun, letting it dangle almost loosely at his side.

          “Sherlock Holmes, I presume.” He replied; it was not a question.

          The man in the chair smiled again, tilting his head very slightly, before his expression seemed to go dead. Only the eyes betrayed him, glinting; knife-sharp.

          “The one and only.” He murmured, and John licked his lips, settled back on the balls of his feet, and lifted the gun again, training it on the curve of Sherlock’s forehead.

          “Sherlock Holmes, you are accused of –“

           Sherlock drowned out the Cleric’s words with a swift sweep of the bow across the strings of his violin, emitting a discordant shriek from the instrument that made John fall silent. The man in the chair let the bow dangle from his hand, and settled the violin in his lap in the face of John’s quiet stare. He looked disappointed.

          “Boring.”

           John narrowed his eyes; tried again. “Sherlock Holmes, you—“

          “No, _boring!_ ” Sherlock snarled; was on his feet and moving forward. John reacted, aimed and pulled the trigger, the report deafening in the small room—

          And Sherlock was directly in front of him, inches apart, arm lifted, his long fingers locked around John’s wrist in a vice grip, aiming the gun at the ceiling. Dust and wood fragments drifted down to them from the bullet hole in the roof, and John was momentarily blinded by the debris. He coughed and it cleared, and Sherlock Holmes’ eyes were there, darkened and furious, and his nails digging against the skin of John’s wrist.

           John shifted; spaced out his feet and twisted his upper body, aiming his shoulder into the taller man’s chest and throwing his weight forward. Sherlock stumbled; caught his balance and maintained his grip on John’s wrist as the Cleric pivoted on his heel, lifting his free arm and moving to drive his elbow into the other man’s stomach. It would have been a disarming attack, but Sherlock was ready. He dodged the blow, and brought himself around, twisting John’s arm behind him and against his back, bringing him to his knees.

          John kneeled on the rotting floorboards, arm pulled at an angle behind him and shoulder screaming in protest. He lifted his head, looking up and back at the other man, staring. Sherlock stared back, appearing fascinated, and tilted his head to the side.

         “Oh my, not even a hint of anger in you, is there?” He tightened his grip on John’s wrist, and the Cleric only watched him in silence, his breathing barely elevated. “Dear me, what is it like in your head, all those emotions supressed and pushed aside? It must be so _boring_.”

          John didn’t reply; just turned his head away and licked his lips again. His eyes flickered towards his right, and Sherlock’s eyes tracked his, recognizing the black shape in the dark and dust almost instantly. “Oh, I don’t think so—“he began, making a grab for John’s other arm with his free hand, but he was a second too far behind.

          John lunged; felt something rip in his shoulder and ignored it, letting the momentum of Sherlock’s surprise carry him forward, free hand reaching, fingers splayed, for the Beretta. Behind him, he heard the violinist curse; heard his feet shifting as he moved forward, lunging. Grabbing the gun, he flipped himself over, rolled across his wounded shoulder—aching, burning, it was blazing, on fire—aimed and fired, the recoil pushing his unready arms back, sending another lance of pain through his shoulder and back, but he kept his eyes open and focused on the man before him.

          It turned out he was wrong; Sherlock hadn’t been lunging towards him, he had gone to the side, anticipating John’s movements. He lay on his side on John’s right, holding himself up with one hand, the other pressed to his cheek, blood pooling and dripping from between his fingers. He had missed his mark, but still managed a hit.

          John lifted the gun again, but his wounded arm refused to hold him, and he tilted to the side, crashing painfully against the floor, the gun knocked from his hand as he tried to stop his fall. The Beretta clattered against the wall and, when he looked up, Sherlock was gone. He turned, searching, and something struck him in the face, sending him back down.

          His head reeled, starbursts clearing slowly in his eyes until he could make out the shape of Sherlock standing over him, the knuckles of his right hand red and bruising. Blood ran down his neck from the groove in his cheek where the bullet had grazed him, the wound shallow but long. It would leave a distinguishable scar; no more blending in or clever disguises for Sherlock Holmes. John turned his head, looking for his gun, but Sherlock twisted, finding it on the floor and kicking it further into the dark.

         “That’s enough of that, I think.” The tall man said quietly, and his pale eyes studied John for a moment, until he stepped back, lifting a hand to his own cheek, still bleeding steadily. He glanced around the room, calculating, then looked back to John.

          “I have to run, but we’ll see each other again, John Watson.” His mouth quirked, and his eyes took on a distant look. “Very soon, I’m sure.” His eyes refocused, and his lips smoothed out and tightened into a tense line. “You’ll want to have that shoulder looked after, I think.”

          Then he turned, was out the doorway, was gone, and John was left with the dust and the dark and the pain of his aching shoulder.

          He waited, counting his breaths, until the sound of footsteps faded, and the echoes petered out, before pushing himself up, and scooting towards the wall. He rested against the brickwork, finally dragging himself to his feet, shoulder protesting vehemently with every movement. He licked his lips, kneeling and feeling around in the dark corners for his gun with his good hand, wounded arm held against his chest. He found the Beretta under the couch, and fished it out while laid on his stomach, gritting his teeth against the pull on his throbbing muscles.

         The gun held in his hand again, familiar, constant, he got to his feet again and lurched from the room, catching at the wall for support. His head rang, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to make out shapes in the dark. Nothing. He was alone. Sherlock was gone, wherever he had escaped to, and he had failed to capture or kill the man. Instead, he stood alone in the abandoned warehouse, the left side of his face aching with the mark of Sherlock’s knuckles, and his shoulder most likely dislocated.

          He made his way down the stairs, back to the first floor, keeping a cautious eye and ear out for movement, or for sounds of Sherlock returning—perhaps this time to finish him off. He made it back to the courtyard in a daze, a grey mist hovering at the edge of his vision. By the time he realized that the car was gone, he was practically stumbling.

          John stood in the empty warehouse yard, his face tilted up to the grey sky; the cold air stung against the bruised flesh of his face. With shaking hands, he reached into his coat, and pulled out a small black case. Opening it with thick fingers, he stared at the vials of gold-coloured liquid, before slipping one of the Prozium capsules into the hand of his injured arm. He kneeled; balanced the case on his knee, and lifted out the injecting gun. Fitting the vial into its slot, he lifted the injector, set it against his neck, and pressed down on the button. There was a mechanical whirring noise, and a brief stab of metal into the side of his neck, and his brain settled into silence.

          Sighing, he fit the injection gun back into its case, slipping it back into his coat as the numbness washed over him, erasing everything but the pain and the ache in his face and shoulder.

            He stood again, eyes searching the yard, and finally finding what he was looking for; leaning against a crumbling brick wall, black paint peeling and chrome parts viciously rusted, was a motorbike. John made his way over to the two-wheeled vehicle, eyes moving over the bike, appraising. It wasn’t in the best condition, but he was almost certain it would work. He kneeled, fitted his hands around the bars and seat, and pulled.

            His shoulder pulsed with pain that the Prozium couldn’t touch, and his hand was beginning to go numb, but he managed to pull the bike up, and swung into the seat. He paused to holster his gun—after casting a final glance around the yard—and, licking his lips, pressed down the starter.

            The bike rumbled to life with a harsh grating sound, and he yanked on the throttle once, twice, three times, reassured by the steady—if somewhat whiny—snarl of the engine. Seating himself more securely, he released the brake and the bike lurched forward.

            His shoulder made steering hard at first, but he settled into the pull and tug of it quickly, and the bike roared out of the warehouse yard, eating up miles and leaving the Nether behind.


End file.
